Dolls
by Melfina Lupin
Summary: Dorothy cleans Rofer's dark attic and uncovers some hidden secrets about both of them


Dolls~By Fujin

Dolls~By Fujin

The mess was unimaginable. It stared back at her with all the nasty retaliation of forsaken furniture, moth-eaten clothes, old pictures still locked in steel frames, ancient toys that a child would play with. They were forgotten things. Things that time did not allow. The mess was a swarm of forgotten memories under layers of settled, rock-hard dust. Things long since overlooked by a cloudy past. These things that were up here to be forgotten and everyday those things dwelt in bitter repugnance of that fact. But that was their fate. Forty years ago their destiny had been decided for them. After that everything had to be moved for the attic, never to so much as to be looked upon again. 

Memories.

Memories made people be excommunicated because of them. Memories caused once significant things to be tossed into a dark corner. To be forgotten. No one wanted to remember. They stopped trying and the easiest thing was to get rid of memories was to lock them in a discouraging little attic far away from sight. To forget them.

Indifferent, Dorothy looked into the attic from the little doorway. The mess did not shock her. Nothing shocked her. Broom and mop in her white hands along with a rag and a buck of water, she was supposed to clean this forsaken attic. For Mr. Roger.

"Norman," she asked the butler in her low voice, "Why is it so dirty up here while the rest of the house is spotless?"

The old man behind her became uneasy for a moment. Intrigue, Dorothy turned around, her eyes as black as the darkness. "What is wrong?"

"Oh, um, it is nothing. Nothing at all, Dorothy," Norman replied, his voice a little tight. "I'm just not use to climbing all these steps to reach the attic. As you can tell I do not to this on a normal basis."

Dorothy nodded, not at all satisfied with his answer. She sensed that he was hiding something but she knew that she could not pry anymore. For the time being anyway.

"Am I suppose to clean these attic?"

"Yes. Mr. Roger is out for the evening and he wanted it to be done so on his return home."

"I see." Her voice was dull, lifeless. 

She sat down her broom and mop gently upon the dusty floor and moved toward a near-by chest. It was covered in dust but something had managed to catch the light from the stairs beyond the door of the attic. Moving back the cobwebs with delicate white fingers, Dorothy picked up a picture. The metal of the frame felt cold against her flesh. She narrowed her eyes to see what the picture held, when she couldn't make it out, her black ribbon slid away from her crimson hair and became a glowing beam of light protruding from her white brow. 

Now she could make out the picture with ease. It was black and white and not taken overly long ago. It was of a little boy, smiling, as he sat, nestled in his mother's arms, her long skirt falling in numerous folds. He had a stuffed dog in his hands and looked like a charming little doll, large brown eyes, white skin, and a bright smile. His mother's head was cut off. Dorothy frowned and placed the picture back on the trunk.

"Are these Roger's belongings, Norman?" Dorothy asked, glancing back at the butler. She could tell that he was still troubled about something.

"I don't know, Miss. Dorothy," he told her. "I'm sorry. I don't remember. They've always been here. I suppose they _are_ Master Roger's."

Dorothy sighed. "How selfish to lock these things away," she commented, slowly running her fingers along the various objects at her side. "Not many people can look in their own house to find memories of their past. Some don't even have a past worth remembering," she added softly.

Norman shifted in the doorway. "Well, it's six o'clock now, Miss. Dorothy," he said after a moment. "I'll have supper ready at eight. Master Roger will be home around eleven or so."

"I see." Dorothy moved to pick up her broom. "I'll have this attic clean before he gets home."

"Good, good," Norman said. Then he gently laughed, "You have more courage than I do, Miss. Dorothy. I hate the dark. Will you be all right up here by yourself? Do you need anymore light? Remember if you have a problem, I'm only a floor away."

"I'm fine, Norman," she replied. She had begun to clean already. Taking the broom in her hands to run its straw-like bristles against the dusty floor. "I'll be fine by myself. I'll see you at supper time."

"All right then, Miss. Dorothy," Norman said, turning to walk back down the steep steps. "Remember supper is at eight." 

"I won't forget," she replied, turning her back as Norman closed the door and returned to his more daily of duties.

She made she that he was well out of earshot when she tossed her broom aside and stood there with her hands on her hips. The broom made a small dust storm as it hit the floor. She brushed the dust away from her eyes as she made her way to a corner to clean there. The floor would be cleaned later when the more drastic of messes was conquered.

"Such a mess," she mumbled to herself. "Roger soon know better."

In the corner she brighten the light coming from her handy lantern and starting sorting through the discarded objects. Most rested in somewhat of a taintless order as if they were laid out to be use by someone-that never showed up. Sliver brushes and combs lying next to each other on a glass platter. Toys arranged in perfect rows. Clothes hung neatly on fat, silk-covered hangers. However perfect they must had been lain to rot time withered some order here and there so Dorothy no longer paid attention to the arrangement the objects had been in. Toys went with toys. Brushes with brushes. Shoes with shoes and so on.

"This is completely in vain," Dorothy murmured to herself. "My works are worth nothing. I will clean things up yes, but they will get dirty again. How rude it is to lock away such lovely things. Just like memories, Roger doesn't want anything to do with them."

That was when a heavy book fell from a shelf. It crashed into her foot. But she was never fazed by the impact. Dorothy sighed and put away the books she had formally be holding. Bending down down, she seized the book. It was rather heavy and as she flipped thought it vivid pictures caught her attention. They were of strange creatures from that found in fairy tales and of pretty ladies dressed in elegant robes of silk and velvet. She turned to the front of the book. 'Dolls', it read in bold gold letters on the red velvet cover, by Lord McCabey.

She stared at the book for a moment before closing her arms around it, pressing it against her chest. I am almost done, she thought to herself. Why not have a little fun. With that, she moved to the dolls she had put together.

~*~*~*~

It was six-thirty on the dot. Norman sat alone in the large dinning room, his plate untouched laid before him. She shot a glance to the empty seat at the opposite end of the long table and frowned. Dorothy was unusually late. He glanced at his humble watch once more. Where was she? Many a time he had called for her yet she still remained locked away in that horrid attic. She was still cleaning? Norman didn't hope so. Maybe she didn't hear him when he called for her.

Norman drew back his chair away from the table against and promptly left the dining room. He walked along a maze work of halls, took and elevator to the top floor, and proceeded to the worn attic door. Pausing, he drew a book of matches from his pocket and lit one before going any further. He opened the door and climbed up the stickle flight of steps. He was breathing heavily when he reached the top.

"Dorothy," he called out, his voice weak. "Dorothy, dinner is ready…."

When he heard her small voice coming from the opposite side of the attic, he paused. Who was she talking to? And why did her words sound so proper? What was she doing. Norman blew out the match not to disturb her and slowly moved away from the door. He made should that he traveled as quietly as possible. She had did a remarkable job of cleaning, he noticed with satisfaction. A very lovely job in fact. The attic had turned from a dark dungeon to a very charming flat, so full of color. He had not seen color in such a long time.

When he rounded a tall shelve hidden behind a shimmering wall of silk, Norman caught sight of Dorothy. It was a very fantastic sight that was laid before his old eyes. Dorothy was clothed in a long flowing red robe with a pretty crown upon her head, a sword placed in her small hand. Her other hand held a book from which she read. Around her were innumerable dolls, sitting on chair, tables, on the floor, on shelves. Anywhere about her as the play unfolded.

Dorothy was too busy reading her lines to take notice of her audience. Norman would not have it any other way. He won't know how to act if he were caught spying. Reading from the book, she held the sword high over her head, and shot an accusing glance to one single doll that sat before her on a high stool. Was she was judge? Anyway Norman was too wrapped up in the mystical spell brought on by the play to have further investigation. Still, his mind wondered nonetheless.

"_Night after night thee has watched while I slept like a babe in my bed, from the shadows you watched my rising. Your adoration is in vain, Sir. I am the ever-cold queen, destined to rule alone with no man by my side. I have no feelings of love for pathetic dolls such as yourself. And your love for me is the cause of you defeat. Dolls are not made to love. Dolls are made to serve. You have committed a grave crime to go against destiny and now you shall pay for it..."_

No, Norman thought. I know this play. Dolls. She is playing the roll of Queen Fauna and is accusing the doll of a crime~yes the crime of loving her. Yes, that it is. The doll before her is Sir Lukas. She must have been bored to death to do this. My, she is wonderful. I should not disturb her. She will come down when she is ready. Anyway I shouldn't let Master Roger know about this. I don't think Dorothy would approve of him knowing anyway.

Not one to see the aneroid openly express herself often, Norman let her be. She did after all have a right to do so. So he quietly turned away and left the attic, making sure he was as silent as possible. Returning to the dinning room he ate his dinner; then proceeded to master Roger's chamber to tidy up for his arrival.

~*~*~*~

Later that night Roger walked into the kitchen only to find Norman sipping at a cup of coffee. When the butler saw him he rose to his slipper-covered feet and was about to greet him when Roger interfered.

"Norman, have you seen Dorothy? I'm looking for her but I can't seem to find her anywhere."

Norman's stomach did a nose-dive. "Um…well I suppose she is still in the attic. She was up there all evening cleaning. I'll get her. Sorry to trouble you, sir."

Roger held up a gloved hand. "No, that's okay. I'll get her. You get to bed, Norman. You've worked all day."

"All right, sir," he replied. "Good night."

"Good night, Norman. See you tomorrow."

"Oh, Norman?"

"Yes, sir?" He turned on his heels to face Roger.

Roger held up a picture in his hand-the same picture that Dorothy had looked at early that evening. Norman gazed at it in confusion.

"I have a feeling that this is Miss. Waynright's doing," Roger explained. "I found this in my bedroom. Why is that?"

"I do not know, sir. Maybe you could ask her yourself."

~*~*~*~

Roger found her asleep. She was huddled in a corner admits layers of soft fabric, her own form clothed with a silk robe. His face softened a bit when he saw her like this. Sweet little Dorothy, sleeping like an innocent child that knows no evil. But Roger frowned and pushed his thoughts aside. Too fluffy. Dorothy had seen too much already to stay so untainted by the sins of the city. Yet, she still remained so. 

He walked over to her, careful not to wake her by the fall of his footsteps. He was only slightly curious when he saw the dolls that were surrounding him. What in the world was she doing? When he reached her, he knelt down and gently shook her shoulder.

"Dorothy," he whispered. "It's time to get up. Dorothy."

Instead of waking up the crimson-headed girl only stretch and rolled right into Roger's arms. Even though he was fairly surprised he did his best to hold onto her. A fall to the ground was something he didn't want Dorothy waking up to. 

Oh great, he thought to himself. I hope she doesn't wake up.

But Dorothy only snuggled closer to him to his great apprehension. Roger stiffened, biting his lower lip.

"I'm not a doll," Roger heard her murmur in her sleep. "I am not a doll. Roger, help me."

He knew she was only dreaming. But even still he had the urge to hold on to her. So he did, tight, and gently brushed his fingers against her warm cheek. Her skin felt soft to the touch. Roger gazed down at her in gentle wonder and whispered, "I know you are not a doll, Dorothy. You are very much a beautiful girl. And I will help you in anyway that I can to make you understand that you are your own person."


End file.
